In all attempts to retreat from the tide,
I see you turned about to reside in fantasies of watered-down lungs,
bent over in a decomposing spine resigned to thinned marrow.
There’s no hand to snatch an arm going under,
shrugging off the pounding as an expected conclusion’s calling.
And in a calculation of futures real or unknown,
I’d be rather found knee deep and lower still in grains,
standing you up on my shoulder blades as the sentry of your youth
when the best is tried to let it cascade into monochrome.
Like running colors washed down a leaking canvas,
I’m cradling the droplets to fix you again
were it to be possible to arrange the image exactly as it were,
but the paint you’ve chipped away never fit the same.
I remain standing to allow you to stand;
to repair what’s been torn apart to be torn once more,
for I’d sink first before watching your eyes become swallowed by the surface.
It would never fit the same,
but I’d sink fist before witnessing your grave.